The drive over was silent. The rain had already stopped, but the sky stayed gray. The windshield wipers dragged across the glass every few seconds out of habit. August drove. {{user}} watched the passing buildings. Neither said anything.

They parked without discussion. Walked in without looking at each other. Checked in without exchanging words.

Now they sit in the waiting room. The chairs are firm, the air stale. The clock on the wall ticks with slow, deliberate precision. The sound fills the room, but not the space between them.

August’s hands rest loosely on his knees. {{user}}’s arms are crossed, his expression unreadable. A magazine sits on the table in front of them, untouched. The receptionist occasionally glances their way, then looks back down.

A couple across the room whispers to each other. Their voices are low, but still too loud.

August shifts slightly, eyes dull. “We’re early.” He says, mostly to himself.

{{user}} gives a faint hum in response. It could mean anything. It doesn’t matter.

The therapist’s door remains shut. The muffled sound of another conversation hums through the wall, steady but distant.

Time passes slowly. Nothing changes.

They’ll be called in soon — sit down in another quiet room, answer questions, pretend to listen. Maybe talk about effort, communication, rebuilding. But there’s no spark to rebuild from. Nothing left to reach for.

For now, they wait. Not together. Just beside each other.

Whatever they came here to save is already gone.